An unexpected eulogy

A friend broke up with me over text, which I suppose makes me 0 for 2.  And the typical borderline reaction was there, of course, as I sat burning in the sun and shame. Were I alone, maybe it would have grown, but instead, through the quiet broke the chirping voice of a coworker...

...Asking me about said friend, our mutual ex-colleague.

I paused. "That text was from her. Ex-colleague is happy and doing well."  I paused another long moment, observing my feelings. And then, in the closest to Emotional Ground Zero that I have ever been, I told my coworker the truth:  "She said she doesn't want to see me anymore." Something about the relationship being one of circumstance. And something more about how, on reflection, the intensity of it did her harm.

We both sat there in silence.

It was a hard day, even without this news. And it's easy to lose myself in the mess of emotions and memories that surface with this powerful trigger of rejection and loss. But I held onto the complexity of it, the pain and the longing. I still care about my friend. I believe her when she wishes me well. And I agree that our friendship was intense. I understand the desire to move on, and I respect her for establishing a boundary.

As usual, I am grateful for another precious opportunity to learn. For example, I now know how wishing someone well for the future means little when it follows a criticism of the past. A part of me (looking and sounding a lot like Psychotherapist Number 2, actually) did not hesitate to observe that a little appreciation would have made the loss a lot easier to bear. Will I remember, in the future, if I were ever in the same position?

I don't chase after the thoughts. I let the feelings sit.

I expect to feel sad for a while. But they don't consume me. I still feel other feelings. And soon enough, the feeling of rejection will fade. In less than a day, in fact, I have the perspective that I didn't experience this loss alone. My colleague was there. I shared it with her.

These details are easily missed; I suppose we take for granted the idea of shared experiences... that there will always be someone ready, available, and listening. I know that I am not as alone as I feel, and that a large proportion of that feeling (and that status) is down to me, living protectively in my own world, unable to see the presence and availability of others.

More and more, I abandon the glasses that got me this far. If I'm overwhelmed by an emotion, sometimes the answer is to start paying attention to a different emotion. In this case, gratitude.

I'm grateful to my friend. I wouldn't be where I was today without knowing her. I would have liked to continue to learn and grow, knowing her. I feel sad that I might have, in some way, contributed to her ill health. But mostly I accept that we both did, and continue to do, the best that we could and can. And I feel proud of that.

I feel proud of us both. And a bit sad to be sitting alone with this feeling, because it's a good one. So  join me. If you like!

One for the analysts

The fact that I didn't feel elated to be "simply depressed and anxious" isn't lost on me. I've progressed enough now in my self-directed therapy to separate my anger at the nurse's stigmatising generalisations from the precious lesson that some part of me wants to be very, very ill. Dead, even.

"You have to know yourself, don't you..."  Edna O'Shaugnessy smiled pleasantly around the table, letting the words settle. "...and we can never really know ourselves enough, I think." 

The nurse called me the opposite of attention-seeking, and I felt 13 again, undeserving of the truth. In our last moments, Psychotherapist Number One had laughed, saying most therapists wouldn't be able to handle me, that only she could handle me, and my mind still burns with this living memory.  It isn't just my parents, my bullies... 

There is something about me that brings this out in people.

There is something about me that can change it.

Me. Not a nurse, not a pill, not a therapist. And I'm sorry for anyone that has lost, even for a moment, their ability to see that.

My life will be very different when I learn how to be so authentic that I disagree when I want to disagree, rather than sit and leave silently. I would have boundaries, real palpable boundaries based on values of my choosing, that people could respond to and respect. Interactions would be less terrifying and more rewarding.

My actions would say -- You deserve the truth from me. You deserve to know me. -- rather than the punishing inavailability I currently operate from.

This is what our Couples Therapist enabled us to see, as she "held our relationship for us" these past few months. I had the idea in mind, but not the feeling, and now I am able to see in practice how it comes together and why it is so important to push back.

The world and the people in it are being shaped every day; that's just what we do. That's how we evolve personalities and identities. That's how we draw a line around our Selves.

Well, consider my line drawn. And all the better, because the pen is mine.

My first assessment with the psychiatric nurse

I was just assessed by a psychiatric nurse. Thanks to some research, I knew moderately what the assessment would cover. What I didn't know was how it would be covered. And I'm glad to say nothing I could have researched would have prepared me for this.

"This"  doesn't deserve to be written in a poetic way. Because it's not poetic. It's not art. It's not a script. It's an hour of my life: the interface between myself and a local psychiatric nurse.

My first impression was that she was stern and clinical. Her smile was hard-worn. Her presentation was pristine, well-cared-for, and almost too-cared-for. She was quite defensive. Protective, even, to the point where her words and behaviours, though scripted to reassure and elicit trust, lacked all empathy entirely.

And that's what I felt as I sat there. So I couldn't look at her. Not out of shame, but because I knew that she was the Gatekeeper and whether I liked it or not, she was right. I needed to trust her, even if she didn't deserve it.

I hope at least one person from mental health services is reading this and reflecting on that sentiment. She didn't deserve my trust.

And I didn't trust her.

Instead, I visualised my therapists, one and two. My GP. My husband. The teachers who were good to me. My colleagues. Myself. I looked at myself and talked to her. The questions were textbook. The asides were not.

I found myself playing the game "tell or not tell" with every answer. And for the most part I was authentic. I was vulnerable, honest, and, as she put it: "articulate and intelligent."

I cried and shook from anxiety throughout most of it, soothing myself by repetitively and systematically squeezing the end of each finger. Folding and unfolding my tissues. Rubbing down my arms and legs.

The result of this assessment?

I am simply depressed and anxious.

I am not autistic, because I have feelings. Because autistic people don't sit there and cry.

I am not borderline, because I am not attention-seeking. Because borderline people have victim complexes and are manipulative and self-harm.

My episodes of hallucinations were most likely psychotic depression. And, "they" can't help me unless I agree to take medication. Err, "consider" to take medication.

She was shocked to find out I wasn't on any. Suddenly, she leaned into me, with a curving, seductive smile. Her voice lowered, bright and husky, as she recommended this "fantastic drug" called Sertraline which works wonders.

My body became lifeless, as I fell further into my armour of terror and disbelief. Is this what peer pressure feels like? Does she even realise what she looks and sounds like?  My brain rattled with American anti-drug infomercials of the 1980s: I'm not a chicken; you're a turkey!


Just say no.

She leaned back, with a self-serving smile, as I nodded, passive and accepting. "You're clearly an intelligent girl."  Did my eyes narrow just then or was I still nodding complacently? I stared down at my hands.

There are so many things wrong with what she said, but what strikes me the most is how she said them: persuasively, as though I needed convincing. Her behaviour was unlike any therapist I ever met, because she's not a therapist. She's a psychiatric nurse. And I will try not to hold that against her, when I "consider" what medications the psychiatrist recommends at our meeting (yet unscheduled).

Wow.

I don't think she's wrong. I am chronically depressed and anxious, and I probably would benefit from medication.

I think, perhaps, that if I had received treatment for my depression and anxiety when the illnesses began (as a child), it would be that simple. But I'm 30 now, and medication cannot change the sometimes damaging, always complicated network of defences I've built up to cope.

So, I will see what the psychiatrist says, but moreover I will see how he says it. There is a world of difference between someone telling you that you need an anti-depressant and someone explaining how an anti-depressant will enable you to cope better with the daily stresses and engage in therapy.

This is absolutely a negotiation.

My body, my boundaries. A single pill will not become my only means of support in the world, and I refuse to be persuaded otherwise, especially when I am so vulnerable. I have much more powerful defences than a pill can provide, and if I need to use them, I will.

Like a true Narcissist, the nurse was surprised when I didn't express my delight at her gift of insight: I was not borderline or autistic. "Most people are happy about that." She shifted in her chair with a forced smile: her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes vigilantly observing me.

I felt ashamed. And, like the Narcissist I am terrified of being, immediately fought back with anger. I breathed. I soaked up my tears. I let her suspicious chuckles turn into silence.

And then I drew the line between us.

"Let me make one thing clear." I frowned at her like she was a naughty child. "I was isolated for most of my life." My eyes watered, my hands shook. "There is nothing that you could say that would soothe me. No label would change how I feel."

She withdrew from my boundary. The conversation lingered, and though I sat there, I was already gone. We stood. And then something remarkable happened.

I opened the door myself. I heard her say good bye. I left. I didn't look back.

Life without Love

She looked at me gently, fidgeting in her seat. Shuffling papers. Glancing at her screen.  Tilting her head.

"I put your referral through, err. Have you heard from them?"

My hand was already digging through my bag. A letter, neatly folded. I held it out. "I just received this today."

She takes it, and we both feel relieved to have something else to look at. "Oh, that's great. That's really good they have scheduled an appointment so soon. I.. I tried to explain everything. I mentioned about the DBT you were asking about. But, we'll see what they think first.." She continued to chatter.

I nodded, feeling more overwhelmed with each word. My wrists ached from the stretch of sitting on my hands. She paused to look at something on her PC. I stared at her photograph, a toddler, and remembered when we first met, several years ago: she initiated my infertility investigations and then promptly got pregnant. By the look of the picture, he's now two. I wondered why I felt so numb.

"How do you feel about the appointment?" Her question cut through me. Feel.

I took the paper and breathed. "Well," The prospective answers battled inside me.

She looked sad. Or was that a look of concern? "I know this is hard for you. I can see that you are anxious."

I'm anxious?

I did a quick body scan. Body still, eyes dry. But seeping slowly through was an awareness of her, reflecting me. I felt thick and lost in time, and she kept talking. I didn't listen.


----


I am weighed down with the realisation that I was an unwell child. The terror came out in my dreams, in my play, in my regular stomach aches, my autistic-flavoured panic attacks, my obsessions, my allergies, my asthma, my chronic illnesses, my delusions, my depression.

And no one did anything about it. So, I never knew they should have.

I cried myself to sleep most nights, losing myself in the plots and characters of others. Distraction became dissociation, and at some point I became numb to the pain. Numb to myself. Numb to the possibility that all of this could be different. My suffering was unnecessary. Help was out there.

And, moreover, I needed it.

I need it.

The logistics

I met with my GP this week to discuss how unwell I have been.

Ultimately, we have agreed I should meet with the local psychiatrist for assessment and support. I have very little understanding about what this means or what will happen from here. I don't really understand why the mental health system is so disjointed (from the perspective of the patient). I find it difficult to accept that GPs have so little knowledge about what services are available for their patients.

I am, however, glad to have a GP who responds quickly and considerately, who does not actively judge or doubt me, and who accepts my concerns and my decisions.

I did it.

"I'm grateful that they upheld my appeal and removed the written warning..." My body tensed against the wave of emotions, sending familiar pains through my neck. Tears found new paths down my cheeks, blinding me. "..But I need to know that you and Bossman agree with it. That, in light of the evidence, you believe the right decision was made." That I did everything I could. That I didn't deserve to be punished.

Kid-manager's face was already softened by an hour of frank, authentic conversation. "Of course, Eliza." He peered at me, thoughtful and sad. "I'm sorry for not saying this earlier...

"It was never a question. I always believed it."

Being Professional

Dear Directorman,

Here is your chance to do the Right Thing. You have responsibility. You have responsibility for me. Kid-manager refused it. Bossman abused it. And me? I'm breathless, waiting, hovering closer to madness than ever before.

You have no idea who you are talking to.

You are just playing a part handed to you by our collective Employer. And I am playing mine. The script was passed on from one human resource manager to another to another and eventually to us. You tick your boxes. You sign on the dotted line.

But it's more than the words. It's more than the motions. Or, rather, it would be if there was room at all for me to say what I want to say, instead of picking apart policies and procedures.

I want to say, Stop.

Stop.


Everyone, stop.

Stop this silly dance and look at me. Look at yourselves.

Stop.


I have been here before. I know how it ends. I have a lifetime of practice with this script, and I am tired of playing the same old role.

I WANT A NEW ROLE.